Whole Again
by SevReed
Summary: "It's the price I paid for what I did." Ten years is a long time to be lonely.


**Hi. Just a one-shot. It's not very long and it's not very funny, but I've had it around for a while so I thought I'd put it out there.**

 **I'm afraid this is probably my last story. My apologies for the things I've left unfinished, I'd love to have the time to complete everything, but circumstances have changed. I won't delete anything, and I may eventually get back to them, but for now I think this is it.**

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed my stories, you've been more than generous to a hack writer, I really appreciate it. The song is 'Pearl's A Singer' by Elkie Brooks.**

.

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She's an actress.

It wasn't her first choice. There had been a pop career, once - a single that had been the sound of the summer that year, followed by another that hadn't quite lived up to it, followed by an album that sank without trace. The follow-up was cancelled, and rumors of her fall from grace were all over the internet before she was even summoned to the record company offices. Public taste had moved on, they'd said, and she hadn't gone with it. Not hip enough for the kids, not serious enough for the adults, slipping through the cracks, unable to find her niche. She'd cried so hard that night.

Although not as hard as she had that _other_ night. The night she'd come home to the empty house.

But the brief fame had been enough, just enough, to make her a little money, and let her barter her way into a shot at the silver screen. And her debut had been a great success, an arthouse movie that had been acclaimed as the future of cinema. Her face was everywhere again, for a few short months. But there were things she wouldn't do, lines she wouldn't cross, and the public that had turned their back on her as a singer had lost patience with her as an actress - what was the point of a starlet who wouldn't grin and bare it, that wouldn't play the game? And although the director had gone on to greater things, she hadn't gone with him. There had been a string of other movies, but time told against her and she'd slipped down the billing with each one, no longer young enough to play the teen lead, relegated to the older sister, the mentor, the woman in the diner. A passer-by.

No one.

Now it's commercials and voice-overs, dog food and cleaning products, playing the perky, thirty-something housewife who _really_ knows how to get those dishes clean, pretty enough to make the dads watch but not glamorous enough to alienate the moms, rolling her eyes at the camera as her husband and kids leave a trail of devastation through the house, flashing a winning smile as she shares her secret to a happy home. "Make it shine," she says, with a wink and a grin, and dies a little inside.

Sometimes there are other calls - sitcoms, radio spots, talks of a comeback tour, or a producer looking for the novelty of a collaboration, but it always comes to nothing. And there are the occasional appearances on those _'Where are they now?_ ' shows, where she tells her story and laughs along, and pretends not to notice that they're laughing at her. That she's the joke.

She hates it. She hates it all. Because none of it matters, without the one thing that she lost.

She's back in L.A. for a shoot. She can't even remember what it is she's supposed to be selling this time, only that she's supposed to be insanely happy about it, that it's a modern marvel, that it's the best thing since sliced bread. It might even _be_ sliced bread. But she knows how it will go tomorrow morning - she'll turn up looking bright and bouncy, and they'll wipe off her make-up, and tie back her hair, and put her in an apron. It occurs to her that she's spent the last five years pretending to be her mom, and that brings on a pang of guilt. She hasn't even told her parents she's here. It's not that she doesn't want to see them, but they'd insist on her staying at their house, and she can't bear the familiarity. She needs the cold, the anonymity. So now she sits in her hotel room, staring at the wall, trying not to think about how they'll feel when they find out.

The solitude palls, as it always does, and she catches a cab downtown. She tells herself she's not going to get drunk, but she knows she is. She finds a bar, respectable but not lively, and makes her way inside. She wonders if anyone will recognize her, but no one does.

She takes a table and orders a drink. A band is playing, lazy blues and swing, and for a moment she feels like she's lost in a different era. She watches as the singer steps forward to the old-fashioned microphone, and sees a glimpse of black hair and ruby lips. The song begins.

 _Pearl's a singer..._

Time stands still. The voice is warm, dark, husky. It reeks of late nights and red wine, coffee and cigarettes, of love and regret. Of missed opportunities.

 _She stands up, when she plays the piano..._

 _In a nightclub._

And she knows it's not an act, that the woman on the stage has been there. That she's _lived_ it. That the love is real.

 _Pearl's a singer..._

And the regret.

 _She sings songs for the lost and the lonely..._

She feels the flush of the alcohol bringing warmth to her cheeks. She shouldn't have come here.

 _And they say that she once cut a record..._

 _They played it for a week or so, on the local radio..._

 _It never made it._

She should leave. She should just go, back to the hotel room. Anywhere.

 _Dreaming of the_ _things she never got to do..._

 _All those dreams that never came true..._

But she can't. She knows she can't. Instead, she sways gently to the tune, lost in memory.

 _Pearl's a singer…_

 _._

 _._

 _._

The song finishes. There's a smatter of indifferent applause. "Thank you so much," the singer drawls into the microphone, her tone bored, almost sarcastic. "We're gonna take a break now."

She watches as the woman heads to the bar, and calls the waiter over. When he arrives, she orders another drink, and scribbles a note on a napkin.

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She senses the figure at the table, but it takes her a moment or two to steel herself before she looks up, taking in black velvet and porcelain skin, red lips and pale green eyes. Eyes that she's seen a thousand times, eyes that had once lit up at the sight of her. They stay, frozen in place. Eventually she has to speak.

"Jade."

"Tori." The voice is flat, expressionless.

"Do you want to sit down?"

The other woman hesitates, as though she doesn't, but eventually pulls back the chair and drops into it. Tori picks at the table top, unsure of where to start, how to make small talk without being trampled by the elephant in the room.

"So..." she begins, but it's not going to work.

"You hurt me."

The words hang leaden in the air, an accusation she can't escape. It's true. Of course it's true. It's been the one constant she's lived with all these years.

"I know," she says, quietly. "I'm sorry."

Jade's lips tighten. She gives an awkward shrug and looks away, and Tori's not sure if that means she's forgiven, or if it just doesn't matter anymore. Somehow she suspects that neither of those are true.

She feels tears prickling, and suddenly she can't face being here. Can't face being _her_. She fumbles with her bag, scrapes back the chair. "I should go."

"No."

She sees Jade's hand on her arm. And when she looks up the singer's expression is softer, more uncertain. She sits back down, and there's a feeling that something dangerous has passed. The clouds still linger but the air is clearer. She takes a sip of her drink. She can't even taste it.

"I really am sorry," she whispers.

"I know."

Jade toys with her drink as though she's about to say something else, and Tori braces herself to take the hit, to let her vent whatever vestiges of anger she still clings to. But instead, all she says is, "I saw your movies."

She blinks in surprise. The thought of Jade sitting there in the darkness, watching her on the big screen seems strange, voyeuristic. "You actually went to see them?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to see how good you were."

She doesn't want to ask, but she does. "And?"

"Some of them really, really sucked."

"Oh."

"But you didn't."

It's a compliment, as back-handed as it is unexpected. She blushes and for the first time Jade's eyes shine with a familiar light at her embarrassment. She tries to deflect it, and nods toward the stage. "I thought you were very good tonight. "

Jade shrugs. "Thanks."

"Do you do this every night?"

"It's just a residency for a while. I do other stuff, too." She fiddles with her napkin and avoids Tori's eye. "I'm thinking about making an album."

Tori feels a little pang of pity. Everyone in L.A. is thinking about making an album. "I'm sure it'll be great," she says, encouragingly.

"Yeah." It's obvious that Jade doesn't believe it either. "You could be on it, if you wanted to."

"Me?"

"Yeah. I can see it now. _'Jade West Featuring Tori Vega'_. It could be my big break and your comeback, what do you think?"

She wonders if she's being mocked, but it seems she's only being invited to share in the fantasy. "Okay," she said. "Why not?"

"Great. I'll have my people call your people."

"Okay."

There's a pause. "Although I don't really have any 'people'."

"Neither do I," she confesses. "There's only Kurt."

"Kurt?"

"My agent."

"Ah." There's another pause. Jade plays with her glass. "So, why are you back in town?"

"I'm... filming."

"A movie?"

"A commercial."

"Right." Jade nods. "I've seen you in a few of those. You did one for that... what was it? Some kind of cookie thing."

 _"'Scoffles'."_

"Yeah, that's it. _'Scoffles'._ I went right out and bought a pack."

"What did you think?"

"It was like there was a party in my mouth."

"Really?"

"Yeah. A really bad one, where everyone died."

"Oh."

I don't know how they could make you eat that stuff."

"They don't. The ones on set are made from drywall and styrofoam."

"I think the real ones are, too."

She smiles a little, but says nothing.

"So what is it this time?"

Tori rummages in her bag for the slip of paper with the details on and flattens it out on the table. "The 'Trident Travail'," she says.

Jade raises an eyebrow. "So do you eat it, drink it, drive it, wear it, wash your dog with it, what?"

"I don't know."

Jade rolls her eyes, and she knows exactly what she's thinking. _You never think anything through._

There's a lull. She knows there are a million questions she could ask, but she's drawn to just one.

"So, are you… seeing anyone?"

Jade looks surprised at the question. "You mean am I dating? No."

"Oh."

"I mean, not right now. Not lately. You?"

"No." She says it quickly, too quickly, and looks down. When she looks up again Jade's eyes are fixed on her, warily.

"So how long..?"

She can't bring herself to say it. She gives a terse little shake of the head and looks away and Jade's eyes widen. "What, no one?" she says. "Jesus Christ."

"I just couldn't, okay?" she blurts out. "I just couldn't."

"It's been ten years, Tori."

"Please don't."

"But-"

"It's the price I paid for what I _did_ , okay?" There's more anger in her voice than she expected. "I didn't deserve to be happy. I didn't _want_ to be happy." Her voice drops. "Not with anyone but you."

Jade falls silent, and she feels embarrassed by her outburst. She wants to say more, to justify herself, but there's movement across the room. The band are returning.

Jade glances towards the stage. "I've got to go," she says. "I'm back on." She stands, and for a moment it seems that's all there is to it, but she pauses and turns. "Will you stay?" she says. "I've only got one more set and then I'm free."

She nods, her throat dry. "Yeah. Sure."

And Jade smiles, the way she used to, a smile Tori hasn't seen in a long time. "Okay," she says. "I'll see you later."

Then the singer is gone, shimmying her way back through the tables towards the stage, and she feels terrible, because she knows it's not true - she knows she can't stay, can't spend the night in small talk, can't look the woman she loved in the eye, paper over the cracks, pretend to be friends. She waits until Jade reaches the stage, until she knows she can't be seen, before she grabs her bag and coat and slips away, biting back tears.

 _This one's for a friend of mine_ , she hears, as she makes her way to the exit.

 _._

 _._

 _._

She sits in the hotel room, and stares at the TV. She tries not to remember, but she does. _The price I paid for what I did._ Even now it makes her stomach go cold.

They'd been together since high school, ever since Tori had gotten a little tipsy at a party and marched over to Jade's house in the snow to tell her how she felt about her. Jade had been shocked, and the next few weeks had been horribly, horribly awkward, full of recriminations and denials, screaming matches and detentions, their friends bearing the brunt of the explosion, the whole school feeling the aftershocks. Until finally Jade had gone out, got steaming drunk, and gone over to Tori's house to tell her how _she_ felt, and not just tell her but show her, and it was a breathless and happy Tori Vega who turned up in class the following day, Jade in tow, to announce to the world that they were together.

And had they been any other couple, it might have stayed that way. But Tori had her eye on stardom, and when success came, it came at a price. The record company insisted that she keep Jade a secret, even though there were plenty of openly gay acts out there, because she was aiming for the teen market. So she'd left a disgruntled Jade at home when she set out on her first tour, and it was two weeks later, buoyed by her success, floating on a cloud of flattery and champagne, she'd said a whispered goodnight to her over the phone before falling into bed with a sound technician twice her age. It was only later, groggy and hungover, that she'd checked her phone logs and realized that in her drunken state she'd never ended the call - that Jade must have hung on, listening, waiting for her final _'I love you'_ , and instead been treated to the sound of her betrayal.

She'd called back, panicked, frantic, but there had been no reply. It was too late. And by the time she got home, Jade was gone.

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She closes her eyes, trying to block it out, to find sleep, solace, but she can't. It's there, as it is every night. The vision of Jade, sitting there in the darkness, shedding silent tears as she listens to her world being torn apart.

There's a knock at the door, and her eyes flicker open in confusion. It's late, and she hasn't ordered anything. She can't eat, not now, and she swore she wouldn't drink any more tonight. Perhaps there's a message for her, but they should have told her at the desk. She moves to the door, and pulls it open.

"Hey."

She blinks. Twice. Jade is standing there, the collar of her coat still turned up against the cold. For a moment she can't function, can't find anything to say. "How..?"

Jade holds out a piece of paper. "You left your letter on the table."

She stares at it. Of course. Kurt had scribbled the hotel details on the back. She looks back up and swallows, her throat suddenly dry. "Thanks," she says.

"I thought it might be important."

"Um, yes."

"I mean, I wouldn't want you to go in there unprepared, or anything."

"Thank you." She pauses. "Look, I'm sorry about leaving earlier..."

"It's fine."

"It's just I've got an early start in the morning, and..."

"I understand."

They stand, facing each other, and she wonders if those are the last words she'll ever hear from Jade, the epitaph to their relationship. _I understand._ But there's something else, something in the way Jade is stood, fiddling with the button on her coat, eyes darting restlessly. A glimmer of something she doesn't dare to hope for. A hint of, if not forgiveness, then at least forbearance. A break in the clouds. She clears her throat.

"Do you… Do you want to come in?"

And the world waits, holding its breath.

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"Yes."

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 _And there, in the darkness, something was fixed, something that had laid shattered for years was put back together again, piece by piece. It wasn't a flawless repair, the cracks would still show, the edges would still splinter, and in years to come they would both feel the pain, feel it catch on their skin, as they remembered. It would never be how it was, smooth, unblemished, it would never be quite so strong at it had been before._

 _But for now, for tonight, it was whole again._

 _And maybe this time they would take more care with it._


End file.
